Designer Custom Pen
by eyesocketsandsuits
Summary: [[ SwissMano Oneshots ]] Switzerland had been placed next to Romano during one of the World Meetings. Bulgaria was stuttering through his presentation, when Switzerland's eyes fell on Romano's pen. It was ridiculous. It was gaudy. Switzerland hadn't even been aware they made pens that weren't plastic. It was silver, chrome, sleek but rounded to fit in Romano's hand perfectly.
1. Designer Custom Pen

Switzerland was cheap. He wasn't ashamed of this fact—not like Austria, who would mumble something about being _cost effective_ or _taking into consideration the economy_ or other suck malarkey—but Switzerland was cheap.

He didn't skimp out on the important things, of course. He and Liechtenstein had all the essentials and, if he did say so himself, quite the excess. She had mentioned she was getting a new Xbox, and while this made Switzerland's skin crawl, he had let it pass without comment.

But _good God_ , the southern half of Italy was ridiculous.

He wasn't sure why it bothered him so much, but Switzerland had started to notice what Romano must have spent a ridiculous amount of money on. It had started with something so stupid, that Switzerland thought about it when he tossed and turned in bed.

A pen.

Switzerland had been placed next to Romano during one of the World Meetings. Bulgaria was stuttering through his presentation, when Switzerland's eyes fell on Romano's pen.

It was ridiculous. It was gaudy. Switzerland hadn't even been aware they made pens that _weren't_ plastic. It was silver, chrome, sleek but rounded to fit in Romano's hand perfectly as he took the occasional note.

At the hotel, Switzerland wondered if Romano had to go to a special pen store and have his hand measured.

It had gotten progressively worse. Switzerland arrived one day to see a car that _reeked_ of money. It was red, and it had a bumper sticker of the Italian flag in the back window. Its tires were thin, and Switzerland was afraid someone would try to steal it.

Romano was leaning against the car, smoking quickly before the meeting. And that was another thing, those cigarettes were hand rolled and smelled delicious. It made Switzerland want to ask for one, but God knows how much each puff was worth.

Later, at the hotel, showering, Switzerland wondered if the paper was a special length so that it fit in Romano's mouth like the pen in his hand.

Romano faded from Switzerland's mind for a while; he sank himself into paperwork and visited Lichtenstein often. He poured over national expenditure and shot at the firing range. His mind kept away from the thoughts of cigarettes well enough.

But then the next World Meeting rolled around.

Once again, Switzerland was seated next to Romano. Switzerland's eyes were not following Russia's over-enthusiastic movements. They were on the sleeve of Romano's suit. Something silky, that probably felt like water when Romano shrugged it on in the morning.

Switzerland's eyes traveled along Romano's arm, resting on his hand instead. What strange hands, they looked like they had a month's recovery from a lot of hard work.

"Are you going to stop fucking staring at me any time soon?"

Switzerland's eyes flicked up to meet Romano's. The Italian raised an eyebrow, trying to look angry, but he looked more smug than anything.

"I know it's a nice suit, but pay attention to the meeting."

Switzerland felt his brain scramble for a response. "I was looking at your hand!" he hissed back.

Romano scoffed haughtily.

Switzerland stood and went over to the refreshment table, grabbing a water. He stood for a moment, recovering. He should think before he tried to defend himself.

"You were always attracted to posh."

Switzerland closed his eyes. "Oh, not _you_."

Austria raised an eyebrow, taking a bite from his cookie.

The comment clicked, and Switzerland choked on his water.


	2. Smoking

They smoked, occasionally. Never anything formal, at the back of whatever building had been decided for the World Meeting. Only a few would gather at the back, some for a quick puff, others for a more stress-reducing break.

Switzerland didn't smoke. He muttered this under his breath when he would join them, leaning against the building, watching the smoke trails wistfully. Romano would sit on the curb, head turned to watch Switzerland breathe in the second hand smoke.

It was cold this time of year in England. The smokers huddled around the door of the office building, bumming smokes off of one another and chatting in whatever language was common between them. Switzerland was there, of course.

Romano had ended up next to him. "Why do you even come to these things," he asked, opening his cigarette case, "Considering you'd just blow yourself up if anyone came too close?"

Switzerland muttered something in French, but he responded in Italian. "I still need to know what you assholes are up to. I'm neutral, not uninformed."

Romano tilted his head in agreement, pulling out one of his cigarettes. He offered the case to Switzerland. The nation looked from the case to Romano, suspicious for whatever reason. Romano rolled his eyes.

"This case it metal, pick a cigarette before my fucking fingers fall off, yeah?"

Switzerland scowled, but chose a cigarette, anyways. Romano tucked the case away, searching his pockets for his lighter. Switzerland examined the cigarette, flicking it slightly in his hands.

"Liechtenstein doesn't like me smoking," he admitted, sticking the cigarette in his mouth.

Romano snorted. He clicked his lighter to life, protecting it from the wind with his hand and lighting his cigarette. His eyes flicked away when Switzerland leaned forward to light his as well. "What, is she your keeper or something?"

Switzerland took a long drag. "You're one to talk—how's your brother? Still nagging you about that porn party?" A quick grin, one sharp and pointed. "Personally, I thought they were funny."

Romano bit down on his cigarette. "Bite me."

"Maybe you shouldn't go around trying to insult people. Liechtenstein thinks it's bad for my health, and she's right." Switzerland blew a smoke ring. "This is a good cigarette. What brand?"

"I roll them myself, actually," Romano muttered, "Ass."

Romano saw Switzerland's jaw clench. "Why am I an ass?"

"You just assumed that Italian cigarettes would suck," Romano flicked his cigarette away, switching to English, "And I don't appreciate that."

Switzerland disappeared from the back of buildings for a couple of months. It was just Romano, smoking his expensive tobacco and grumbling when his brother would try to steal one off of him. When Romano would walk back inside, Switzerland would stand and stretch his legs, following Romano as he went to get a cup of coffee.

Sometimes, when Romano would be fixing a snack, he would look out of the corner of his eye and see Switzerland looking at him from the conference table. It gave Romano the heebie-jeebies, made him spill drinks or drop his phone during a call.

Finally, after months of glares from Switzerland and Romano missing staring at someone breathing in other people's smoke, Romano walked up to Switzerland. The neutral nation gave him a curious, cautious look.

"Look," Romano spat through gritted teeth, "I'm sorry about the ass comment. Now, would you stop being a whiney mother fucking bitch and come stand back outside?"

Switzerland raised an eyebrow, looking over his shoulder quickly before leaning forward; Romano took a step back. Over Switzerland's shoulder, Romano caught sight of Liechtenstein talking to Hungary, laughing and playing with each other's hair.

"You have quite the fucking mouth for wanting me to rejoin you. Besides," Switzerland leaned back slightly, looking to his right as America waltzed into the room, "I told you I don't smoke."

"Seriously? Why the hell do you stand outside then—certainly not the view."

Switzerland closed his eyes briefly, and then gave Romano a glare. "Why do you even care?" He was slipping into German, "You barely even talk to me. You just give me these looks like you're judging me for standing!"

Romano curled his lip. "Please—I never look at you! You're the one who follows after me whenever I get inside, creeping up on me like some—" Romano became aware of how loud his voice was getting, and lowered it to a hiss, "Some _creeper_ or something!"

" _Creeper_!" Switzerland yelled.

"No, fuck, you just—are you fucking smelling me? When I walk in?" Romano leaned closer, desperate to get the answer, "Like, because my cigarettes smell good and you want to smoke some more?"

Switzerland stared. "Italy, what the hell are you talking about?"

Oh, God, Romano had royally fucked up. He ran a hand over his face, knowing his face was probably red. "I—fuck, fuck, look, I got you some cigarettes, here—" Romano fumbled for the box he had gotten, nearly dropping it. "Shit."

Switzerland snorted, but it might have been a laugh.


	3. Dial

Romano itched for something to drink. The burn of something wonderful down his throat, the fuzziness to the edges of the world, the warmth that spread through his stomach and into his toes. Romano would give just about anything for a drink.

Switzerland was playing with the radio. He was always playing with the radio, and more than once he had broken down and just thrown the object across the room. Sometimes, static flickered through, vague voices.

Romano usually left Switzerland to it, helping the small refugees haul wood to build shelters or help the teenagers start smoky fires. Or he would walk along the perimeter, the miles and miles of it, making sure there weren't any holes.

When Romano would drag himself back to the small hut that served as their home, Switzerland wouldn't say anything. Sure, he'd sneer slightly, but Romano would just kick the radio and collapse.

One day, after another month-long trek, Romano was curled into a ball on the mat, watching Switzerland and the fucking radio. Romano watched the curve of his shoulders, the tiny movements as Switzerland's hands worked the wires.

"How are we alive?"

Switzerland didn't turn around. "We are; that's all that matters. Go to bed. You're going to get sick if you keep running around like a crazy person."

His feet ached. Romano wanted to get drunk, wanted to forget the world around him, the scratching at the fences, the graves that dotted their small town like freckles. In the dark, even then, Romano could hear the sounds of grief, dull, muted, ever present, like static.

"Your Italian doesn't sound shitty anymore."

Switzerland doesn't turn around.

Romano felt like picking a fight. He needed something to do, but it was too late to build, to immerse himself in something. He itched, like _they_ did before they started eating their own flesh.

"Hey, maybe it will even become the new lingua franca, some dirty, bastard child of German and Italian. Wouldn't that be something? Then there won't be any Germans left—"

Switzerland turned around so fast, Romano was worried he was going to get stabbed with a screwdriver. It was dark, but Romano could see the pure _anger_ on Switzerland's face, the curled lip, the snarl.

"Shut up!"

Romano looked away.

"Sorry. Fuck, sorry."

When Romano woke up, there was the anxious murmur. He wasn't used to such a population, and fear cut through him like a knife. Romano jolted up, staggered out of his tent, crashed into some kid who helped him up and apologized in broken Italian.

"What's happening?"

The look on the kid's face was enough. Romano pushed through the crowd, running a hand quickly through his hair to make it presentable. He should have changed his shoes, something—

A girl.

Switzerland stood with a gun pressed against her head. She was on her knees, hands clasped in front of her chest, praying. Romano could see the scratches on her arms from where he stood, the long strips peeled away. She hadn't gone for her eyes yet, but they were red, scratched at.

She looked like Lichtenstein.

"Switzerland, Vash—"

Romano felt the gunshot like it had been him kneeling. He took a step back, sucking in a quick gasp. The population in their tiny town wasn't enough; deaths so sudden still made Romano want to curl up and sob.

Romano threw himself into the work, cursing and slapping at the cars that were being dismantled, the equipment bent into shape. It reminded him of before, when he would sweat under vast, blue skies, nothing but fieldwork and lazy siestas.

Skies were different in the small patch of the world left.

When Romano collapsed onto his mat, Switzerland was still tinkering with the radio. The buzz filled the air, and Romano was soothed by it. He wondered how Switzerland saw in the dark, the different parts that connected.

And then a song filled the air.

"You're fucking kidding me."

Switzerland stood and placed the radio on the only table, backing away like he was afraid it would cut off. Romano stood next to him, and they watched the radio like they could see the notes dancing in the air. Someone was broadcasting that. They weren't the only ones left.

"She could be out there."

"No, no fucking sister talk. Don't get your hopes up."

Romano looked at Switzerland, and for a crazy moment, he wanted to dance. He wanted to take Switzerland by the hands and twist and laugh to the song that was old and new at once, to forget about the camp and think about World Meetings and the group texts they would used to have.

Of wine and cigarettes and happy, happy people who didn't eat away at themselves and others.

Switzerland looked back at Romano, and he looked away.

"This sounds like a boy band."


End file.
